


Fallen Apples

by oncetherelivedaboy



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:01:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncetherelivedaboy/pseuds/oncetherelivedaboy
Summary: Have some non-canon Tjelvar backstory.Tjelvar is used to the half smirks of colleagues in his field. He hadn’t grown up in the city with posh schooling, city townhouses full of servants and an endless row of tutors. He’d grown up in rural France, in a quiet village.
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Tjelvar is used to the half smirks of colleagues in his field. He hadn’t grown up in the city with posh schooling, city townhouses full of servants and an endless row of tutors. He’d grown up in rural France, in a quiet village. It was mostly other orcs in the countryside village, but there were a few goblin families as well, humans as well, even a few gnomes. He’d gone to school just like the rest of the children in the village in the local church of Demeter during the winter months and summer, when it was less demanding and more so just a waiting game, in the fall and spring though it was all hands on deck. A farming community is not much without farming. Tjelvar can remember the first year his mother handed him the scythe, and he joined the rest of the adults, though he wasn’t even 10 at the time, in harvesting wheat as the younger ones picked vegetables under the watchful eye of the paladins who brought lessons of nature to the field and helped to bundle and wrap, and can and stew the harvest or the winter ahead. There was never a winter that the town went hungry, and they had a great feast to end the long days of work and enter into the cold dark days of winter.

He wants to feel proud of himself as he swings the scythe, wants to emit the same rays of joy that the rest of the town feels at the job well done. But with each strip he cuts away he is reminded that this will be the same every year. He sees his chances rotting away like the apples that have fallen to the ground after wind storms, nothing but wasted potential.

While the nights were long and dark Tjelvar never minded the days spent pouring over texts in the temple, writing essays and helping the younger students as the paladins went over lessons of history and arithmetic, French and English. He liked the history the best, and on more than one occasion his parents were drawn to the temple late into the evening to find him curled into a corner, far from the light and heat of the fire, eyes straining to read the text.

He only spoke English and French, but he’d spend our hours slowly translating and making sense of the ancient greek texts, a dictionary and translation guide to one side, a quill and ink to another and the book he was actually intending to read in the space that was left. Serena always led his parents to him.

“We don’t mean for him to bother you,” His father would say and Serena would just smile and hold a hand out to Tjelvar, promising him that the books would be there the next day.

“It’s no bother,” She would assure his father. “It’s good to see someone so invested in the world.” She’d often sit with him after the other students dispersed to play or go home, after she’d spent her own moments alone in silent prayer to Demeter, wishing safety for the children on their journey’s home, and thank her for the harvest that kept them sustained, and the opportunity to teach the children. Then, she’d come over with her long auburn hair and sit with Tjelvar. Often silent, sometimes weaving or patching armor or reading, and wait for his questions. Because, he always had them, and the other paladins, while patient with the children during the time they had agreed, did not extend that patience to the evenings when the children were to be home and the temple was to be theirs again for reflection and healing and prayer. He doesn’t mean to tell her that he wants to leave, wants to study and find tombs and go to college, but it slowly slips out after that first

It is early fall, and he is nearly 14, nearly a man, when Serena comes by his family home one evening. She was wearing heavy traveling cloaks, though she had only traveled from down the road.

His parents ushered him and his brothers outside to play while they speak with her. Tjelvar remembers the pang of loss in his heart at the thought of her leaving. The person who had helped him and taught him, that had in every way but blood been his family.

His mother called for him from the door as he and his brothers dared each other to climb higher and higher into the tree. Tjelvar had let himself drop from the branches, trying to make himself smaller as he climbed the steps to their home. He sat at the table when his father gestured to it.

“Tjelvar, Miss Aubel would like to discuss something with you.” His father has poured small glasses of cider for them all, including Tjelvar, something he has never done before.

“I’m going to Paris.” She says, after a moment of hesitation. “Then onto Cambridge, in England not for long, I’ll just be visiting a few colleagues, but I’d like you to join me Tjelvar.” It feels like a trick, a trap, a joke that is going to spring.

“I think you have a shot at the college there, I’ve arranged meetings with a few of the scholars in history. Old friends of mine from seminary, some even former disciples of Demeter who found their calling elsewhere,” He stares at her blankly, looking up at his parents who sit across from him at the table. His father’s eyes give away nothing but he can see the glimmer of something in his mother’s. Her hands folded in front of her.

“I..” He says, not sure what else to say as he stares down at his own hands, his mother reaches out and takes one of his.

“ Farming is a fine trade,” she finally says, “a wonderful thing to do, but from the moment first set foot in that school, I knew. I knew Tjelvar that this wasn’t the life for you. You are so bright, and you have the opportunity to do this, to see the world and learn and grow. If this is something you want we want it for you.” She says, and he can see the shine in her eyes.

“Saying yes to this journey does not mean forever.” Serena says softly. “It’s just a step out, a small adventure. The libraries, the books, the people you could learn from, I think you would love it.” Tjelvar nods and his father claps a hand on his shoulder, holding the mug of cider out to Tjelvar again. This time he takes it clinking it against his father’s mug before they all take a drink.

“We leave day after next at daybreak.” Serena says. “I’ll collect you then.” Tjelvar nods, shaking her hand furiously before she heads out. She’s halfway down the street when he finds himself bursting back through the door, running towards her and giving her the biggest hug he can manage, the creak of her armor beneath the robes reminds him of his own strength, reminds him that she is human. She was startled to say the least, but has managed to awkwardly pat his shoulder when he lets up enough for her arms to be free.

“thank you,” he finally says, “For all of this. I never could have imagined that, I would… that I’d get to....” She nods at him.

“I think you would have found your way eventually.” She says. “but, I didn’t want to wait around and risk you missing out. Pack your things tomorrow. We’ll have a long journey, but I trust an exciting one.” She pats him once more on the arm before turning back to the temple and leaving.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He eventually falls asleep, still sitting up, a charcoal nub in his hand and his head rested against the wall. His brothers say nothing when they awake long before the sun crests the sky. Leaving him sleeping as the rest of the house bustles around, his father grilling bacon and eggs, while his mother leads the children outside to the first days of harvest.

He can’t sleep that night, finds himself sitting up in bed, his younger brother across the room. He can hear his father’s snores from down the hall, and hushed whispers from his sisters’ room. He finds himself staring at the moon as it looms above the fields and garden. He flips through his notebook on the bedside table. It had been a gift from his mother last year, she was sick of the scattered loose papers. The paper books within it were held in by thin strips of leather, and he could tuck any other piece of information that he deigned important into it, alongside them. It was easy enough to refill, and he’d taken to wrapping the pages he no longer needed in waxed cloth, tucked into a drawer of the dresser or under the mat on his bed.

He eventually falls asleep, still sitting up, a charcoal nub in his hand and his head rested against the wall. His brothers say nothing when they awake long before the sun crests the sky. Leaving him sleeping as the rest of the house bustles around, his father grilling bacon and eggs, while his mother leads the children outside to the first days of harvest. They will all put the final touches on gathering baskets, sharpening scythes and shears, his youngest brother, Thorin, and his father will begin the brines for the vegetables and boil the now empty jars.

When the sun breaks Tjelvar wakes with a start. He dresses quickly and rushing out to aid his mother in the field as she strips back the wheat in heavy sweeping strokes. She smiles at him and gestures to the scythe that is leaning against the side of the tool shed. He takes it up and takes his place for what he imagines might be the last time By midday they are exhausted. The sun beating down on his neck, his hands cracked, and sore, the calloused hands he’s worked up over the years have protected him. It is his sister’s first year beside them in the field, and her hands are stained red. At lunch he helps her to rinse the blood from the, rubbing salve into the cracks and wrapping them in soft cotton strips. His father relieves her of the duties in the field, and she joins Thorin in the kitchen. Tjelvar and his mother bundle the wheat into bushels, hauling into the barn loft. They will take it to the millhouse when the harvest is finished. As the sunlight fades the last bushels are hoisted up, and they all head back to the house. The end of the first day, with so many more long tireless days ahead of them. Thorin and his father have made fresh bread and a stew of lamb, carrots, potatoes.

They do not eat in silence, they have never been a family of silence. They sing and laugh, Signe tells them about a praying mantis she had found in the cucumbers, and his mother tells the family about Tjelvar leaving the next day. Signe and Ase, his sisters whoop and yell, pulling Tjelvar into a hug, Leif claps him on the shoulder heavily enough to sway Tjelvar, but there is anything but malice in the action. Thorin begins to cry, he’s only 6, and Tjelvar bundles him into a hug, promising that he’ll be back soon.

They disperse when the food is finished. His mother darns a pair of socks near the fire, his father next to her, humming lightly as he eases the tension from her shoulders with calloused thumbs. Thorin and his sister’s are playing a game of marbles while Leif sits on the front porch, nursing his own glass of cider. Tjelvar packs, listening to the conversations and sounds of life in the other room as he does. His mother comes in as he folds a change of clothes. She is holding a small bundle of food, bread apples, and cheese. She also passes him the socks she had been working on. She shakes her head at his folding and ushers him away from his work.

“You’ll need to figure this out on your eventually.” She say, emptying the bag. She refolds the dress shirt that he had packed, along with his nice trousers. She packs his clothes, some toiletries, a soft bar of soap, a razor kit, extra socks, and all the essentials a mother knows to pack. She bundles his pen and ink set in a cotton cloth so they aren’t crushed or damaged, and does the same with an old pair of his glasses. She lays out a cotton shirt and trousers for tomorrow, along with his father’s travelling cloak and a small dagger in a leather sheath. He doesn’t expect trouble, but she was always a worrier.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as his father walks in, a sleeping Thorin with his head on his shoulder. His father tucks the young boy in, kissing his head before patting Tjelvar on the shoulder again.

“We both are.” Thorin mumbles something and his mother goes over to push the hair out of his and hush him back to sleep, sitting on the side of the bed as she does so. Leif comes in, yawning as he changes into night clothes, shoulders and back cracking as he does so. Their mother kisses Leif on the head as well as he slips under the covers, gives Tjelvar another hug before heading out. The lights are extinguished, and his brothers are asleep shortly after. Tjelvar lies awake, trying to sleep. There is a tug at the covers and he turns to see Thorin climbing into the spot next to him.

“Had a nightmare” he murmurs as he clambers over Tjelvar.

“Wanna talk about it?” he shakes his head, wrapping himself around Tjelvar’s free arm and nodding back off just as quickly as before.

He eventually does sleep, his dreams unremembered but leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

He wakes before the sun, family already gathering in the kitchen to get ready for the day. Thorin is still asleep when Tjelvar has dressed and gotten ready for the day. Leif wakes him, and helps him get ready for the day, he ties his hair into a quick bun to keep it out of his face, but they all know that Thorin will likely have to go to their mother to redo it more than once that day.

They are finishing breakfast as the first rays of light flit into the house, his mother clasps the traveling cloak around his throat when he stands at the door. She fusses with it as he stands, trying to work out any wrinkles. She is beaming, and steps with him outside. He can already see Serena, leading two horses down the road. She raises a hand in greeting when she sees the door opening. His mother walks him to the gate. She is still fussing with the cloak, picking at a loose thread.

“I’ll have to fix that when you get back.” She says, and his father comes up to stand beside her.

“Be safe.” He says, pulling his son and wife into a hug. The embrace tight and homely, something to carry him through the small adventure he was about to embark on. He pulls away, clapping Tjelvar on the shoulder once again, and Serena stands at the gate.

“Take care of him.” His mother says. Serena bows her head.

“It is my duty to ensure that he returns back to you safely. We should not be more than 2 weeks.” She says. His mother nods, and Tjelvar ties down his own bag, to the mount, before hefting himself up.

Serena does the same, with a grace and poise that Tjelvar had lacked. His parents smile and wave as they begin the journey. They are still standing there when they crest the first hill and finally lose sight of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'll eventually write some shippy stuff soon. But it won't be this piece. I just really like Tjelvar and want more Tjelvar content.  
> Find me on tumblr at Oncetherelivedaboy.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

He’s ridden horses before, but never for this long. His family had a cart that they took when they did travel, the children piled in the back, climbing over each other to get a look. They really only left their little town when trading with other nearby towns.

They’d trade pottery, wool, paper made from wood pulp, wax and honey, anything extra or left over. Though they did have to outsource some resources, mostly metal, there were no mines nearby that they could pull ore from. There was a blacksmith in town, though he tended mostly to shoe horses and make repairs than make anything elaborate. Metal was scarce, and while he made his own runs for materials there weren’t enough people needing new tools on a regular basis to warrant him having large quantities of iron or copper at any given time. There were small luxuries came from the outside world, books and spices, oil for the lamps, polish for leather. There were a few magical items dotted around town from those who had settled here after adventuring, and of course the temple had their own magical resources. Tjelvar loved the concept of magic, of studying the weave and arcane, but it had never been something he had been able to explore beyond the books he drowned himself in.

They stopped regularly to allow the horses a break. Serena would lead them to a stream off the road, and they’d sit and Tjelvar would try to ignore the aching in his spine and the chafing in his thighs as he ate what his mother had packed him.

They rode in pleasant conversation, Serena discussing some of the new texts she planned to pick up for the temple, as well as other supplies that they were running low on, chalk and slate boards for the students in the upcoming winter, curing salts for the animals that would be slaughtered at the end of the harvest. She mentioned weapons, as well, for the paladins as they rose through the ranks, new robes as well.

He hadn’t thought much about the hierarchy within the Cult of Demeter, knew a little bit about the titles given how much time he had spent around them. Serena’s robes were emblazoned with a cornucopia, full to the bursting with apples, squashes, greens, herbs, wheat. Vines snaked from it, where irises, violets and the flowers of her lost daughter bloomed.

They made into a town as the sunlight began to fade. “We’ll have to camp tomorrow” Serena told him. She booked two rooms at an inn, they stabled their horses and ate roast chicken and potatoes. Tjelvar was asleep before his head hit the pillow that night, his muscles sore and his stomach full.

The next night they camped, Serena taking them off the road a bit to set a fire. Serena passed him fruit and dried meats from a bag that carried more than it let on. He’d heard of bags of holding before, but hadn’t expected her to have one.

As with the night before he was asleep nearly as soon as the food was gone, the sun just She set watch for the night as he slept, and woke him a few hours before dawn. She passed him a watch, something he’d never seen before, and told him to wake her when the longer dial reached the 7, currently it sat at 3. He was used to waking up early, but it was strange to be alone in the night. He listened to the bugs and the quiet crackle of the fire. He gathered firewood from the edge of the clearing as she slept, building it back up into something they could cook breakfast on. He busied himself, setting a trap or two on the outskirts of the clearing, hoping to catch something when the world woke up.

Mostly though, he just sat by the fire, slowly and carefully relaying the previous day into his journal. He heard the snap of a trap as the first light emerged, and found a rabbit. He offered a prayer to the goddess, killed it quickly. He skinned with the efficiency of his father, then sliced the meat from the bones and cooked them over the fire. He had lain the pelt out on a rock, using the knife to remove the skin. Serena awoke before he’d finished with his current task, and before the time she had asked him to wake her. She nodded to him as she gathered herself, repacking her bedroll and blanket, before taking a moment in the woods, going to stream to wash her hands and face. The horses still tethered and unsaddled, their heads each resting on the back of the other, legs folded beneath them as they slept. The ate in silence, the rabbit juicy and fresh, carrots and squash roasted until soft. They repacked their gear quickly as the sky became fully light. Then they were back on the horses.

The next night was at another inn. As they approached the city, the towns gotten closer together, the countryside dwindling away and the farm land replaced by homes, and markets and store fronts. They stopped for an early lunch at a small restaurant. The made it into the city by the late afternoon, and Serena led the horses to the Temple of Demeter.

It was strange not to see children in the temple during the day, it was just clerical staff and paladins, and people looking for healing or a place for quiet prayer and contemplation.

“We don’t act as schools in the cities,” Serena explained, “they have their own institutions and learning. It can be harder in the countryside to have those same resources.” Tjelvar nodded. There were classrooms he noticed, but they were for would-be paladins and clerics.

Serena led him to a side room, there were beds made up and a warm basin of water already waiting.

“I need to speak with the temple’s high priest before we continue on to Cambridge and there are a few things I’d like to show you in the city as well. Take a rest, there is a wing with baths and such to the West. Any of our members would be happy to assist you should you get lost. I shouldn’t be long.” She smiled at him, and he nodded. The door closed softly behind her and he set down his pack on the stone floor. He fished out his shaving kit, stepping out of the room himself and found his way to the baths. They were steamy and smelled of lavender and other herbs. The heat eased the ache in his muscles. He washed his hair, untying the braid and letting the hair float out around him. He shaved as well though there was little stubble. He borrowed a robe that a cleric offered him when they came to collect his clothing, he took it graciously, and headed back to the room Serena had left him in. He dried his hair, and then pulled it back into a loose bun. He lay down on the bed and slept. It has been a long couple of days, and he was exhausted.

He woke to a soft knocking on the door, it cracked open and he heard Serena’s voice.

“Tjelvar, I’m coming in.”

“That’s fine.” He replied and she poked her head in. He was still under the covers, not yet fully awake. She crossed the room, leaning her pack up against the wall. Her hair was damp, falling down her back and leaving splotches on the clean new paladin’s uniform she wore. There was a soft leather bag across her shoulder, the bag sitting on the opposite hip. She held a bundle of folded laundry out to him, his clothes had been cleaned and starched. He nodded his appreciation and she stepped back out of the room to allow him privacy. He opened the door after his shirt was buttoned and he had his travelling cloak back on.

“Are you ready to see Paris?” She asked.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it.” She grinned at him, 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr at oncetherelivedaboy.tumblr.com


End file.
